


the farmers' market.

by mouthymandalorian



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouthymandalorian/pseuds/mouthymandalorian
Summary: annie christiansen is a lonely, awkward, moody artist with a complicated past. when she meets marcus pike—a kind, supportive fbi agent who just wants someone to let him love her—she may have found everything she’s ever wanted. but can she let go of that past, and let herself trust anyone could want her exactly the way she is?
Relationships: Marcus Pike/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 14





	1. nice to meet you.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr.](https://mouthymandalorian.tumblr.com/)  
> okay, i fell down a marcus pike hole and i'm slowly digging my way out. a fair warning to everyone involved--annie is a self-indulgent ofc. like, she's me. idk how else to put it. if that's not your jam, then you'll wanna turn around. but i needed to do some exploring, and marcus is so soft and good and kind and deserved so much more than what he got so i wanted to give it to him. also, we will be exploring annie's mental health and what it's taken her to get to where she is today. i'll be sure to put up any appropriate warnings when the time comes.

Annie inhaled deeply, bracing herself for the day ahead.

The sultry morning air rolled over her skin and she pulled her shoulder-length, ash-brown hair into a lazy bun. Summer was in full swing in Washington, D.C. The sun peeked over the horizon; the lack of clouds in the sky promised a clear, beautiful day. Good for business, but she was bone-tired from her regular job, and the temperature was scorching. 

She worked tirelessly to get her wares set up before the farmer’s market opened. She spent every Saturday here. Her 9-5 covered the bills, but she relied on the extra money she made from selling her paintings for luxuries. 

The other artists and artisans trickled into their stalls. Annie was always earliest. The habit earned teasing from her fellow creatives, but she didn’t mind. It was nice to get here before everyone else. And she didn’t have to worry about anyone knocking into her or getting into anyone’s way.

“Annie!” 

She turned her head to see the smiling of her friend and neighboring stall mate, Delia. 

“Delia!” she called, raising a hand in recognition.

Delia’s arms were full of paper grocery bags. The bags contained display stands and boxes of handmade metalwork jewelry. Her pieces were delicate things made from steel, and Annie admired Delia’s ability to bend the unyielding material to her will. They flew off her table, but Annie never faulted her for it. She’d bought several rings and necklaces for herself. 

“How are you this morning?” Delia asked as she set the heavy bags onto the white plastic table. She took out a hand-shaped display stand and set to work clasping a silver bracelets over the wrist.

“Oh, you know, exhausted,” Annie replied.  
“You know, you don’t need to get here at the crack of dawn,” Delia said, smirking.   
“Helps me get into the right mind space, you know? Dealing with strangers is exhausting,” Annie said, ignoring her. Delia, a true extrovert, rolled her eyes and laid out the last of her jewelry. A bell sounded, signaling that the market had opened. 

Annie’s assumptions about the weather were right. The crowd was huge, garnering her a fair few customers by mid-morning. At 11 am, she realized she was starving. 

“Can you watch my stall for a sec?” Annie asked Delia.  
“Sure,” the other woman agreed.  
“I’m going to get some tamales. You want anything?”   
“Oooh, yes. I’ll take three, please. And a LaCroix.”  
“Mrs. Flores doesn’t have LaCroix,” Annie huffed.  
“But the stall next to her does!”  
“Fine, but only because you’re so pretty,” Annie said. Delia stuck out her tongue and scooted her chair between the two stalls to keep a better eye on both of them. 

Annie took a minute to wander around and greet the other vendors before she ventured to the food stalls. She passed a blacksmith, a tanner, a fletcher, and a woman who made tiaras from twigs and fake flowers. Sometimes, it was as though she worked at a renaissance faire rather than a farmer’s market. 

“ _Hola, señora_ ,” Annie said, her tongue tripping over the ‘r’. She wasn’t very good at Spanish, but Mrs. Flores had been giving her mini-lessons over their Saturday chats. The older woman beamed at her effort.

Mrs. Flores was one of Annie’s favorite people in the world. She coaxed Annie’s problems out of her and tried to feed her for free, a kind act that Annie always refused. Mrs. Flores was also a people watcher, and Annie loved listening to her running commentary on the market patrons. 

“Young men dress ridiculously these days,” she announced as a group of teenage boys passed by, all of them clad in joggers and over-large hoodies. Annie laughed at Mrs. Flores’s laments while trying to keep the all pieces of the tamale in her mouth. 

“Oh, my— _mija_ , look at this one,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. Annie looked up and found herself staring into a pair of warm brown eyes. She realized too slowly that her mouth was wide open with laughter and full of tamale. In her attempt to recover, she inhaled half of it. Annie coughed and sputtered; Mrs. Flores handed her a bottle of water.

“Get it together, _mija_ , he’s not that handsome—oh, hell. Yes. He is,” she said. The warm brown eyes had made their way over to the tamale stand, and Annie was sure she’d actually died and was in hell. Her face, already red from the heat, was almost purple with the effort of not choking to death. At least it would be a delicious end.

“Can I help you?” Mrs. Flores asked the man. She pounded Annie’s back with such ferocity that most of the tamale had made its way out of her throat. Annie coughed it into a napkin, trying her hardest to keep Brown Eyes from seeing the situation she’d gotten herself into.

“Is...is she okay?” Brown Eyes asked. The note of concern in his voice would have been touching were Annie able to focus on anything other than surviving her own awkwardness. 

“She’s fine,” Mrs. Flores barked. “Tamale?”

Taking advantage of the distraction, Annie darted from the location. She realized that she’d forgotten the bag with Delia’s order of tamales and LaCroix laying on the table, but she moved through the crowd without looking back. When she returned to her stall, Delia arched one well-manicured eyebrow at her.

“Why are you so red? Are you crying? What happened? Where are my tamales?” she asked, standing up and walking toward Annie.  
“Oh my God, Delia, you won’t be—”  
“They’re right here,” a raspy voice behind Annie answered.

Shit. 

“Who are you?” Delia demanded. Annie swung around to see Brown Eyes standing there, and oh, _no_. He was still lovely all the way over here. He stood bathed in sunlight, carrying two bags and holding a key lime LaCroix. Fat droplets of condensation from the ice-cold drink gathered on his fingers. Her own personal delivery man.

He was a sight to behold. His brown hair looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, sunglasses pushed back into the mop of curling locks. He had a scruffy beard and mustache, which was so adorable it made Annie’s heart flutter. He wore a white linen button up, the top two buttons undone, showing off a tan chest. 

Annie searched his finger for a ring, but saw nothing. Then she remembered herself and darted toward him to take her bag and drink from him. 

“I—thank you,” Annie said, shoving the bag into Delia’s hands. Delia stared at the interaction.   
“Are you okay, miss?” he asked. Brown Eyes was too sweet for his own good.  
“I’m fine. Thank you. I just...choked a little,” Annie said. He looked at her with disbelieving eyes.   
“Are you sure you don't need anything? Your friend seems occupied,” he said.  
“What? Oh.”

Annie looked back, and Delia was busy gobbling down the first of three large tamales.

“If you don’t slow down, you’re going to choke, too,” Annie called. Delia raised a middle finger and continued eating. 

“Thank you, again,” Annie said. She didn’t want the man to go, but she had art to sell.   
“I’m Marcus,” he said, “Marcus Pike.”  
“Annie Christiansen,” she said. He stuck his hand out, and Annie shook it. His hand was much larger than her own and calloused, but warm. He lingered a little, and she gave him a bright smile, feeling her cheeks glowing even more.   
“Well, I should get back to my booth,” she said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.

“Oh, yeah! Sorry. Don’t choke anymore,” he replied, and cringed at his own joke.  
“It was nice to meet you, Marcus.”  
“You too, Annie.”

And then he was gone, disappearing through the crowd. 

“What the hell was that about?” Delia asked with her mouth full.

“I choked in front of the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life is what that was about.”  
“He liked you,” Delia observed.   
“No, he didn’t,” Annie argued.  
“Yes, he did! He introduced himself. He could have just left, _after_ he brought your stuff to you.”  
“I’m sure Mrs. Flores just guilted him into it.”   
“He still could have said no,” Delia pointed out. 

Annie ignored her and stared back into the crowd at his broad, retreating back. She wanted to see him again. Maybe he wanted to see her again? He _had_ introduced himself.

_Marcus Pike_ , she thought, closing her eyes and uttering a silent prayer to a god she didn’t believe in that she’d catch another glimpse of those big brown eyes.


	2. first aid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> marcus returns to the farmer's market, determined to make things right. predictably, things go askew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr.](https://mouthymandalorian.tumblr.com/)
> 
> warnings: blood mention, very slight injury. :)

As soon as he’d walked away, Marcus wished he’d stayed. He _wanted_ to, but she’d seemed so embarrassed. He sighed wistfully, thinking about her sparkling green eyes. He could have stayed, could have asked her about one of her paintings. The purple one that glittered in the sunlight. He should have told her he works to take down art thieves. That would impress her, right?

Instead, he’d turned and walked straight out of the market. Now, in the air-conditioned breeze of his car, he wondered if it would be too weird to go back. Or should he wait till next week? What if she wasn’t there next week? And when the hell did he get so indecisive? 

“Go after her, _guapo_ , she left her things. It’s your fault she choked anyway,” the older woman had told him after he’d paid for the tamales, gesturing to a second bag and an unopened can of sparkling water. Marcus had a hard time disobeying anyone who reminded him of his _abuela_. 

“ _Si, señora_ ,” he’d said, smiling at her. Her smile was reluctant, but present, and it felt like a minor victory. She directed him to the artisans’ section, the primary reason he’d visited this market, out of the dozens in D.C. 

He should have stayed. She was so pretty, and a little weird. Who got that embarrassed about something they had no control over? Ugh, and then he’d gone and made a joke about it. But she—Annie, he reminded himself—hadn’t seemed offended. Just busy. Marcus leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. It had been a long time since anyone had made him feel like turning around and running back to her. 

Marcus sighed and shifted the car into gear. He’d go back next week. He didn’t want to appear desperate. It had only been a fleeting conversation. And if it was meant to be, then she’d be there next week, right? 

At least he had tamales for lunch.

* * *

Marcus spent the next week researching Annie Christiansen. He hadn’t meant to stalk her, but he didn’t think it’d hurt to see if she had an Instagram or Facebook. A lot of artists did, right? And he spelled her name wrong the first few times, so it took a couple of days. When he tracked her down, he found she did, in fact, have an Instagram for her art, and it was active. 

Her pieces were lovely, but she undercharged for her work. Thirty-five for an original 5x7 seemed to be her going rate. Most of them were strange, unnerving portraits of girls with cartoonish features and wide, deep-set eyes that looked straight at the viewer. Others were the night sky, and some were alien-like flowers. 

Marcus loved them all. 

It was an accident, finding her personal account. He really wasn’t snooping. He just clicked on a link that brought him to dozens of pictures of her face. Annie out with friends. Annie holding a tortoiseshell cat. Annie sitting on a stool in front of an easel. Her face was vaguely uncomfortable in all of them, she never smiled with her teeth, and she held a guarded position in all of them. There was something achingly sad about her, this woman he didn’t know. 

He was aware he’d built her up in his head, and that was his own fault, but he had nothing but time. There was no one waiting in the wings for him. And he figured he owed it to himself to get to know someone new. If she wasn’t who he thought she was, that was okay. She owed him nothing. 

Despite the disaster that was Teresa Lisbon, he still knew he was right about his gut instinct 99.9% of the time. And his gut told him that Annie Christiansen would be important to him.

* * *

Marcus arrived too damn early the next Saturday. The starting bell hadn’t rung yet, so he milled around with the other over-eager patrons. He was sure their zeal had more to do with getting the freshest strawberries and less with the pretty girl in the artisans' area. 

When the bell sounded, he didn’t want to seem too overexcited, so he wandered around for a few minutes. His plan, which he was rethinking for the 20th time, was to return to the tamale stand and buy some for her to make up for their previous meeting. He thought it would be romantic. He hoped she did, too.

When Marcus got there, though, the line was a mile long, and he’d be there all day at this rate. And he was far too ready to see her again. Instead, he took a left, and headed toward the artisans. Trying to be polite and nonchalant, he stopped at various stalls, but gave up after just a few. 

Marcus’s heart sank when he arrived, and she was nowhere to be found. Her friend was there, the one who’d snatched the food up, and her stall stocked with her paintings. So he just needed to wait, then. 

Her friend spotted him, a wide grin spreading across her face, like she knew something. 

“Delivery Boy!” the woman called. Her teasing set Marcus at ease. He walked toward her.   
“Hi,” he said in a shy voice, which seemed to warm her to him.   
“Are you here to buy a necklace, or are you looking for something else? Someone else?” she asked, smirking.  
“You could say that,” he said, folding his arms. 

Delia folded her arms, too. 

In the middle of their staring competition, Marcus felt someone move behind him. In his haste to step out of the way, his arm flew backward and connected with something soft. He heard a soft “oof” from behind him. He spun around and saw Annie Christiansen sitting upright on the concrete ground with her legs splayed out in front of her, arms at her side. 

She looked up at him with a pained expression, blushing intensely. 

“Are you trying to kill me?” she asked him weakly. Delia rushed forward, but Annie stuck her hand out to stop her.   
“Give me a second,” Annie said.   
“I’m so sorry—oh my god, you’re bleeding,” Marcus said when, to his horror, he saw bloody scuffs all over her palms where she’d caught herself.   
“Of course she’s bleeding, you knocked her on her ass,” Delia said, glaring up at him, her softness from earlier wiped away. Marcus knelt down next to Annie and hesitantly wrapped his hand around her elbow.  
“Can I help you up?” he murmured.   
“Okay,” she responded. He hoisted her up, and her long yellow sundress fell around her ankles.   
“You look really nice,” he said, hoping to fix the situation he’d created.   
“I—oh—thank you. Hope the blood comes out,” she said, wincing.   
“Let me take you to the first aid station,” he implored. She raised her eyebrows, but nodded, looking back at Delia.  
“You’re on thin ice, Delivery Boy. Bring her back in one piece,” Delia smirked, sitting back down in her chair between the two booths. 

This was not how Marcus imagined this going at all. He could not believe he’d ruined this already. 

* * *

Annie wallowed in her own mortification. First, she’d choked in front of him. Then, she couldn’t even keep herself upright. She was glad he was nice enough to walk her to the first aid station. The walk was quiet and awkward, and Annie hated the tension in the air. She wasn’t mad at him, but she suspected he didn’t know that.

“I’m so sorry,” Marcus said again. God, he was so pretty.   
“It’s okay,” she said, “I’m not the most graceful.”  
“Are you...is anything else…” he trailed off, not sure how to word it.  
“Does my ass hurt? Not yet,” Annie laughed. Marcus laughed, too, the tension in his brow relaxing, and Annie wanted to make him laugh again.

  
“Hey, there, Annie!” the young man working the tent said.   
“Hi, DeForest,” she winced.   
“Do you come here often?” Marcus asked.  
“Maybe,” Annie shrugged. She’d already admitted she wasn’t graceful.   
“Annie’s here a lot!” DeForest said cheerily. 

Marcus crossed his arms, amused. 

“I’m not here _a lot_ ,” she protested.   
“Twice a month at least,” he teased.  
“Can you just clean these cuts, please?” she said, scowling. She couldn’t stay pretend-mad for very long. Besides being the first aid contact, DeForest was a sweet college student with dreams of becoming an EMT. She learned all of this while he bandaged cuts and gave her ice packs and even talked her through a panic attack.

In return, Annie bought him cookies and painted him anything he wanted. He’d protest, saying he was just doing his job, but Annie was sure she was his only regular customer. 

After DeForest patched her up, Marcus walked her back to her stall. 

“Thank you,” she said.   
“It was the least I could do after knocking you down,” he said. For a moment, they just looked into each other’s eyes, and Annie felt herself flush. Until Delia’d had enough.   
“Hey! Love birds! Are you done? I have to get back to my own stuff here,” she said. It was just like Delia to ruin a perfectly pleasant moment, but she was right.   
“Do you...do you want to take a look?” Annie inquired, motioning toward her paintings, trying to keep a handle on the rising hope in chest.   
“I would love to,” Marcus replied, and stepped forward while she moved behind her stall. He asked a million questions about each piece. What was the inspiration? How did she decide on the colors? Did she know she was undercharging?   
“Are you, like, an art detective?” she laughed, not used to fielding an interrogation during a sale. Marcus grinned.  
“Kind of,” he said, reveling in the cute way her nose scrunched up in confusion. He explained his job, and she listened to him talk about recovering famous stolen paintings and sculptures, including a Frida Kahlo, and nodded meekly.   
“Well, I’m not entirely sure how any of my stuff would interest you. I’m no Frida,” she said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Marcus realized he’d made her nervous and stepped closer. 

“No, but you _are_ you. I’d love to buy these two, please,” he said. He pointed to a pair of paintings that people always passed over. They were a set, and she insisted on selling them as such. One was a portrait of a girl; she was a drab thing on a gray background. Wild eyes and blue skin, stringy hair, wearing a large sweater covered in a pattern of closed eyelids. The other wasn’t a portrait at all, but a carnival with lights made of gold glitter flakes under a lavender sky with cotton-candy clouds, and a small, grinning figure floating in the center. When she explained they were a set, customers shook their head, not understanding why. They wanted the carnival because it sparkled. 

“Oh, um, sure! Both of them?” she said.  
“They’re a pair, right?” he asked. She hadn’t even shown him these.   
“I...yes, they are. Just, people usually only want to buy the carnival. They don’t want the Grey Lady,” Annie said.  
“Hmm,” Marcus said, “I like the Grey Lady the most, I think. But I want them both.”

Annie couldn’t help but grin. No one liked the Grey Lady the most. 

“Okay… sixty-five for the set.”  
“Absolutely not,” he said, and her heart dropped, disappointed that he’d be a patron who argued her hard work down in price.   
“Oh, um—”  
“A hundred for both, and you’re still undercharging,” he said before she could finish her thought. She brightened considerably, but tried to argue. Marcus waved her concern away. She packed them into a little paper bag and took a hundred-dollar bill out of his hand.   
“Thank you, Marcus. For walking me to first aid and for your purchase,” Annie said.   
“I’ll let you get back to it,” he said. “See you around?”  
“Yes, okay. Bye, Marcus.”  
“Bye, Annie.”

It wasn’t a bad market day, all things considered.


End file.
